The Longest Shadows
by infinite-repeat
Summary: "Leslie doesn't think about herself because she's usually busy thinking about others." Pawnee's summer has been a long one. Leslie/Ben


"Ben, I really think if we just shift some programs around-"

"Leslie," he answers sternly, playing with his tie. "I'm not meeting with Parks today, I'm meeting with sewage. We'll get it taken care of eventually, alright?"

"_Sewage?_" Leslie asks in disbelief, wrinkling her nose. "What? No. Ben, come on. I've been writing down ideas in this notebook all month."

"And we'll go over them," he says with a warm smile, patting her lightly on the arm. "For now, just take some time for yourself, alright?" He rubs her arm slightly before walking away, and she stares at the place where his hand was for a second before exhaling loudly in defeat.

"Time for myself?" The concept seems foreign. Leslie doesn't think about herself very often.

Well, she thinks about her future. She daydreams a lot, imagining sitting in the oval office one day. She'll have a super presidential playground that her two perfect little kids (one girl, one boy; she thinks she'd like one of each, for equality reasons. "I don't want to prefer one sex over the other," she assures Ann) will scrape their knees in, and maybe a fluffy puppy on their heels, a squeaky bone in its mouth. And she'll have a wonderful husband who won't be embarrassed to be the first "First Man," who will support her and stay up to wait for her at night when she's busy working out new legislature and writing her next speech.

She thinks about that, but mostly when no one's paying attention. When she has time for herself, time to stare out the window in her office (when there isn't a pigeon doing its business there) and daydream. But she's used to not having too much time for that.

Sometimes, but never on purpose, she remembers that time after she graduated college, when her mom sat Leslie down for a "woman-to-woman" chat, stating that politics weren't easy and, realistically, Leslie was probably not going to become the first female president. "I just want you to be grounded, sweetie."

Leslie's never told anyone about that. And she's forgotten about the tears she shed, alone, after her mom patted her on the head and left the room.

She tries not to be a crier, and usually she succeeds.

But this budget crisis . . . it's hours, days, weeks of daydreaming time. Her mind wanders from things like moving to Eagleton (where ideally their parks director would suddenly leave his job, and they'd be having issues, and she'd step in with perfect timing) or single-handedly fixing Pawnee's government. Most of her thoughts involve her saving the day, actually, in some way (maybe "saving the day" could replace "solving a murder on a train" for her life goals, but she thinks they're kind of the same thing). Sometimes her mind arrives at Ben.

She doesn't get him, really. If he wants to get rid of his teenage mayor past and be an elected official, then why isn't he trying to make citizens happy like she is? The budget slashing and closing of the parks is only making people upset . . . who's going to vote for that? He says it's responsible, but she feels like it's mostly painful.

She just wants her work back. She wants to stop having time to think so much (but every time she tries to get into meetings that don't involve the Parks Department, Ben leads her out by her arm, though sometimes he's smirking so she knows he isn't actually angry). She likes the distraction that fighting with Ben has brought her. It's never real fighting, where she's nervous that he hates her or anything. He's always smiling at some point (a little too much, she thinks, which sometimes confuses her. "I wonder if he's like the Joker," she wonders aloud to Ann. "No. . . I don't think so," Ann gently replies).

Regardless, Leslie doesn't think about herself because she's usually busy thinking about others. Pawnee's residents, stuck without Parks and programs and ways to be involved in their community. Her friends; Tom dealing with his divorce, Ann figuring out her thing with Chris, Mark dealing with his new job.

(He's texted her, a few times. She never admits that she misses him, even when he admits that he misses her.)

But there isn't much she can do for other people right now, and it's driving her crazy.

So instead of actually leaving City Hall this time, she sits on the nearest bench to wait. Ann's working for the next twelve hours, and she'll want to sleep after that, so Leslie's on her own for the time being. Everyone else has been so busy, with new jobs and projects and. . . . Leslie doesn't know what else she has.

It's an hour of staring at the mural across the hall before Ben emerges from he and Chris's office, shaking hands with the head of the sewage department, who's the first to notice Leslie.

"Hey there, Knope!" he taunts. "I'd like to see you try to get away with cuts as great as these."

"Still not ankle-deep in feces," she says with a sweet smile, feeling proud when Ben has to repress a laugh.

"What are you still doing here, Leslie?" he asks cautiously, once they're alone.

"I have nowhere else to go," she whines. "I'm going crazy, Ben. I haven't gone this long without working since the one summer I tried to rebel against my summer reading list, but even then I felt so bad that I read all three books the day before school started."

"Of course you did," he says, and he's smiling that smile, so she knows (hopes?) this is okay. She looks sheepishly down at her feet. "What if we go to JJ's, get a quick bite?"

It catches her a little off guard; they haven't really "hung out" outside of City Hall since that time he insisted they needed beer. But she accepts, because she'd really love some waffles right now, and she's desperate for some kind of company.

She's not used to feeling so lonely.

It ends up being easier than she expects, being around Ben and not having to fight over anything. He's a little closed off, and she's a little too prodding, but they're laughing at something silly and she has to duck when he flicks the wrapper from his straw at her.

"Hey!" she scolds, grinning as she picks it out of her hair. They calm down a little, and there's this silence, but it isn't weird or anything. Leslie just feels . . . comforted. "Thanks for coming out here tonight, by the way. It's been kind of a weird time."

"I know you're not used to this," Ben says gently, and Leslie jumps a little when he puts his hand down close to hers on the table. "But it's just temporary, and soon you'll be back to changing Pawnee, one park at a time." He's smirking a bit, not in a mean way, but it makes her slightly sad.

"If there's even any money left for parks," she mumbles, spooning a glob of whipped cream into her mouth. She's staring at the table, trying not to look at his hand, memorizing the patterns in the linoleum. And suddenly she feels kind of silly, like a little girl, until the weight of his hand abruptly on top of her own pulls her attention back.

"I'm sorry this is all happening," he starts, but he seems at a loss for words. And he's just looking at his hand, like he's not sure how it got there, and Leslie feels like her face is probably red (but she might like it? She can't be sure).

"My mom once told me that I'd never become president," she says out of nowhere, startling herself. "And I think that I probably know that, deep down, but this slump . . . it just reminds me of how little I'm getting done."

"But you brought back Freddy Spaghetti!" he tries lamely, his too-wide smile faltering as Leslie sighs.

"_You_ got Freddy back," she replies, quiet, still not meeting his eyes.

"It's not like you haven't done things, Leslie-"

"But it's not what I always imagined," she admits. "I mean, I love it, and I love what I do, but. . ." She trails off, feeling her way back to reality, realizing that Ben is now actually holding her hand. She squeezes back. "I'm sorry, I don't usually-" She's a bit flustered, embarrassed to feel the prickle of potential tears in her eyes. "I don't usually talk about that. Or really just, think about these things. At all. Myself, that is."

"I get it," is all he says, but she believes it, somehow. She knows he does.

And she tries not to think about it when they go back to eating, a new kind of understanding in the air, their hands still clasped in the middle of the table.

She knows that when she gets home, she'll have all that time to think too much about this. But it'll be okay, because maybe she'll smile and be too distracted to feel lonely. She's already forgetting to feel lonely right now. And when they leave, and he plants a quick kiss on her cheek as she's turning toward her car, she just _knows_ things will be alright. She gives him a weird little wave, stumbling a little as she gets in her car. (She tells herself she's just being clumsy, but she knows her heart is beating faster than usual.)

(And it doesn't really matter if she never becomes president, because she finally_ feels _like she could. And for now, that's just enough for her.)


End file.
